Korobeiniki
by kapteeni
Summary: It's the end of World War Two. There's so much to do, so much to fix, so many grudges to get over. But at the back of everyone's minds, Prussia's disappearance and death is there, manipulating their choices and weighing down on their hearts. No one knows the truth.


**A/N: Another depressing fic! Yay! I tried my best for historical accuracy, but please make some allowances. I'm not really (at all) an expert in history. I also accept (and ~love~) critique, so please please please critique. Or just review normally. Whatever**

**This doesn't take place in any specific time, just after the war in general. Don't try to learn**** anything involving dates in relation to each other from this. Like, really. Don't.**

**Warnings: References to real life atrocities, slight swearing, angst. **

******Korobeiniki**

"_No one is actually dead until the ripples they cause on this world die away..."_

_-Terry Pratchett, Reaper Man_

"It was you." Spain looked angrier than he ever had before. Never, not even during his years as an Empire, had France been truly frightened of Spain. Everything was understood between them, even as they were fighting for their lives. There was restraint. No nation could completely dissolve and kill another in a simple war, could they?

But there was a fire in Spain's eyes now. His fingers twitched slightly, and France could almost see the double-headed ax that had been a necessary part of Spain's attire for so many years. "You're the one who killed him," Spain said.

Francis backed away, raising his hands up in what he hoped was a placatory gesture. "Antonio, it coul-"

"_Don't call me that." _

France carried on smoothly. "It couldn't be helped. All this...it was his fault. We could have avoided all that pain, Ant-...Spain. I know what happened to you." Guernica. "No matter what anyone says, you were as much a part of this war as we were."

"Don't change the subject, Francis." Spain spat the words out. "You were the one who killed him, and you know it!" His fingers were really twitching now. Francis watched them in horrified fascination. "You were so...you just wanted revenge." Spain collapsed to the ground in a sobbing mess. Instinctively, Francis reached out to comfort him, but Spain jerked away, almost as if he were afraid of Francis' touch. "Why couldn't you just let it go?"

"It wasn't me! Russia...if you had seen him...we needed to get rid of the Nazis..." Francis stammered. How could he explain to his best friend why Prussia had to die? It wasn't easy, it wasn't easy for any of the Allies.

Spain grabbed France's shoulders, taking him by surprise. Tears were streaming down his tan cheeks. "Why!" he screamed, shaking France so hard his vision began to go white. "Why couldn't you just let him go?"

France couldn't do anything. Prussia was gone, long gone. His people had all fled or been trapped. Nothing remained of the state that had once been so great, that had overcome its extreme geographic disadvantage and rose to become the one country that would lose the most. What was it Italy had always feared, especially when he was little? That empires would grow too strong and collapse in on itself, or something like that.

Spain was hugging France now, still sobbing uncontrollably. Eventually it dissolved into sniffles.

"We're not a trio anymore, Francis," Antonio said, trying to wipe his face on his sleeve. "So what are we?"

**XxXx**

Pruss- no, it was just Gilbert Beilschimidt now. He no longer had the right to call himself a country. He was only human now, a stupid human dying in the snow. He wondered if this is what Rome and Germania had felt as they fell onto each other's swords. It probably wasn't. At least they had the comfort of dying together.

He wondered if his body would still be there, or if it would simply disappear as throughly as his country had, leaving nothing but blood-stained snow behind to signify seven hundred and fifty-seven years in the world.

He shouldn't feel this _useless. _He had seen so much as he stumbled from village to village, and had been completely unable to do anything except avert his eyes from the fly-covered graves. Gilbert had collapsed shortly after he exited one such town, coughing blood up into the snow.

Nothing he could do now except die. He was waiting for it now. For once, he could escape all the post-war pain and just disappear. He hadn't been attending church as much as he should have. Never had much after his days as Teutonic Knight. Who knew what came next, anyway.

Did it even matter?

Germany would be surprised at how philosophical he was getting.

Gilbert tried to divert him self from the pain that was steadily spreading through his veins like poison. Think of anything, Gilbert. Anything except yourself. So he thought of Germany, his adorable little brother, growing up through the ages as his limbs turned to lead and his heart slowed down. About how proud he was off that little stoic rascal. How he had grown up and gotten so strong, so eager for more, so happy to be a country. And then how World War One had ended, Prussia and Germany both in the ruins, both wanted revenge.

Maybe the Allies were right and this all was his fault. He should have been the big bro and kept his head, even as he was pounded down into the dirt.

Gilbert coughed again, blood trickling down the side of his mouth. He was too weak to even sit up now.

How long did it take humans to die? It seemed so easy; they were so fragile, dying with cold and hunger and pain and sadness and loss and all those bodies and all that blood pouring into Prussian soil and he had taken all of it...

Behind him, the snow crunched. Gilbert opened his eyes slightly to see a happy face peering at him.

"You will become one with me now, _da_?" Russia said, beaming at Gilbert. "We will all be very happy together at my house." He bent down and scooped Gilbert up, carrying him bridal style. Gilbert couldn't help but see the blood on Russia's coat. He struggled feebly, but he had no energy left and just ended up coughing again, adding to the streaks of red staining Ivan's clothes.

Russia didn't seem to notice. "We will live together forever with my sisters and the Baltics and we all will be happy."

"N-No," Gilbert muttered. He put his hands on Ivan's chest, trying to push himself away.

"You feel very cold. You have been here awhile before I found you?" Ivan smiled. "You kept on walking and I was very busy. I'm sorry." He set Gilbert back down and took off his fur hat and coat and wrapped them around the former country. They were both way too big for him, the coat trailing on the ground and the hat drooping over his eyes.

Gilbert would never admit he had to lean on Russia to stay standing.

Ivan laughed at the apparent ridiculousness of his costume and picked him back up. "We will find you clothes at my house, _da?_ Silly Germans are not prepared for winter."

_No,_ Gilbert thought as snow once again began falling. _We aren't. _

**XxXx**

It had been a year, perhaps more. Nothing had changed. Europe was still in a confused haze. The nations tried to hold meetings, but everyone who was really need either wasn't invited or didn't bother to come. Nothing was resolved. Austria was tearing himself apart, and Germany was trying to raise enough money to both feed himself and repay the Allies. Trials were being held, long trials that hurt Germany to see.

America was busy in Japan, but one eye was always on Russia.

Italy was never around anymore, he too having to find enough money to repay everybody. He was also dealing with the collapse of the still-young Italian Empire, but they were all going through that and he had no room to complain. Perhaps it was worse seeing his boss executed and humiliated, even in death. But maybe he was on the rebel's side all along.

France was busy trying to cope with no one listening to him.

The Baltics hadn't been seen or heard from in ages, not since England's half-hearted bid for their freedom. Most didn't even think of them. Those who did assumed they were probably dead. Poland was going through too much to think of anything except his own country.

Germany held his head in his hands. There was too much to do, and no one wanted to let him do it. He wasn't given any time, and America, Russia, France, and England seemed to find in necessary to drop in every ten seconds, not talking to him or each other, and just stare at him as he tried to work. All four nations maintained a hostile distance to each other.

They didn't have any reason to trust him. Germany couldn't complain, and he had to keep any resentment he felt to a minimum. That was exactly what had gotten him into this mess in the first place.

He would never forgive them for Prussia though. He wouldn't say anything, but he would never forgive them as long as he, or they, lived. And when he had them all under his heel again, he would make them _pay. _

No. He couldn't think like that and he couldn't ever again.

Germany picked his pen back up. If he ever got out of this mess, if his house ever was given back to him, he would never go to war again. Some things were too much, and everything was hurting.

The door creaked open and America walked in without a word, leaning on the plaster wall. He unwrapped a hamburger that he had almost magically conjured up. Germany hadn't seen so much food in a long time.

"Do you want it?"

The question took Germany by surprise. He almost dropped his pen. If anyone was going to talk to him, he thought it would be England. America had adopted a strict policy of non-communication. It only added to the problems.

He took the burger.

America watched him eat it. The look in his eyes was...odd, to say the least. Slightly glassy. Germany imagined his own eyes were the same. "I could get arrested for this," he said causally. "I believe this is still aid to the enemy."

Germany nodded, but didn't stop eating. Paying child support was still considered aide to the enemy. Talking to the enemy was still aide to the enemy. Hurting the enemy was still a honorable contribution to the war effort.

America left without him noticing.

**XxXx**

There was a memorial service. Of course, there was no body to bury, but no one expected one for a nation.

This was the first time a nation had died in a thousand years. Everyone had thought they were long past killing. Occupation, yes, that mad scramble for Africa had raised fears of death again, but nothing had ever come of it.

For once, there was no arguing. Every country, Allied, Axis, or neutral, brought a wreath. No one looked each other in the eye for fear of the expressions they might see.

Some one had planted cornflowers around the small stone they had purchased. They were just beginning to bloom.

The stone was bare of any markings except for '_Gilbert Beilschimidt_' written in flowing cursive. Putting the date would raise suspicions, and 'Prussia' wouldn't be believed either. But no one could bring themselves to lie about it. That would undermine all that Prussia had accomplished.

After the service, America pulled Britain into a corner. "Where is Russia?" he demanded. "Or the Baltics? Or Ukraine and Belarus?"

"Is this the time?" England hissed. He was still so thin. America remembered that rationing was still in full effect in the United Kingdom, and it seemed unlikely that they would ever recover from the Blitz.

America averted his eyes. "I need to know where they are. Everyone should be here."

"Russia had his own business to attend to. He lost a lot too." England turned on his heel and walked away, leaving America alone.

America didn't bother to go after him.

**XxXx**

Gilbert was always cold nowadays. He hadn't ever recovered from that first day alone in the blood-stained snow. He stayed in his room in Russia's house,staring up at the textured ceiling. He couldn't move, he couldn't walk. He was fairly sure his that his heart wasn't beating.

There was a radio on the bedside table. It was always on, telling of tragedies in an emotionless voice. A village was burned today. An eleven year-old was pushed against a wall and shot for stealing bread. A car full of starving refugees were shot and hung in a barn. The list went on, but Gilbert refused to let anyone turn it off.

It was getting bad for Ukraine. Gilbert watched her with red eyes that no longer held expression as she went from the epitome of life and healthiness to a rebel to an emancipated form that every day still went out to farm. Even as she was struggling to breath and her stomach was becoming bloated from starvation, she still went out.

He never saw the Baltics.

Russia manipulated Belarus like the chess master Gilbert suspected he was.

He was in a wheelchair now. Russia sometimes pushed him around the house, asking him how happy he was to still be here. Gilbert wasn't sure if he meant here in the Soviet Union or still here on Earth. Gilbert didn't ask. He didn't really care.

He did ask about his brother, occasionally. Russia rarely had answers.

Cuba (or at least he thought it was Cuba – he had never met that guy personally) came over once or twice. Gilbert was never allowed to speak to him. Well, he wasn't banned from it either. He was just 'strongly encouraged'.

America came over a lot too, sometimes in chains and always very pissed. He never saw Gilbert either, though he obviously suspected something from the way he kept on glancing over at the door to Gilbert's room/infirmary/prison.

One day, Gilbert thought, he'll open it. And he'll find the former militaristic state of Prussia lying in a hospital bed, staring up at the sky and listening to the radio. What would he think? Would he tell anyone? Gilbert barely knew America. The North American country had mostly been involved in his own affairs after 1812. He hadn't met Gilbert on a personal level since he was a mere child rebelling against his brother and in desperate need of someone to show him _how_.

Gilbert began to read. It took him a while to learn Russian, but Ivan was surprisingly eager to teach him. He worked his way through the classics, through textbooks, through the mindless propaganda Russia pumped out, the dystopia novels that America seemed to leave wherever he went, and the utopia novels from Russia imagining the future of the Soviet Union. Once Ivan brought a new movie to watch: _Ivan Groznyy. _Russia had loved it; Gilbert, not so much.

"_We've beaten you, Germans-Livonians! The time will come when you shall submit to Muscovy." _

Though even Gilbert had to admit that Fedor Basmanov the Cross-Dressing Oprichnik was, if not amazing, at least very unique.

Gilbert felt that wave of uselessness roll over him again as Russia wheeled him back to his room. He couldn't even walk; he didn't deserve to be a country. He wasn't strong enough. Ludwig could run things on his own, he didn't need an annoying older brother watching him over his shoulder.

No one missed him anyway. Otherwise they would have found him by now. He had hurt France pretty badly, and Spain too, he guessed. There was no reason for them to waste their time on him.

Prussia didn't matter anymore.

"_Today, the bodies of three MIAs were found in an abandoned East German town. Two had died of gunshot wounds and internal bleeding, the third of exposure. More and more refugees from Poland and Hungry are being relocated into German boarders. The French still refuse to acknowledge the needs of -" _Russia turned the radio off.

**XxXx**

It was years later. Gilbert had finally moved out of Russia's house, though he was still technically in the Soviet Union. He felt drawn to East Germany though. And so he lived there, as a human. Right next to the Berlin Wall. He could walk now, with support of a cane or crutches. He was getting better. But he still wasn't _well_.

Gilbert couldn't figure out why he wasn't aging. Humans would have become old by now. But here he was, still in the same twenty year-old body he was in the day he died. No one understood it, but Gilbert wasn't going to go around questioning things in case some one caught on and took it all away.

He worked as a waiter. Waiters probably would not have gotten much work anywhere but here at the edge of the wall. People were starving; they couldn't afford to pay for their food to be cooked and served to them. Instead, soldiers came to flirt and eat once they got off shift. Everyone hated them, the only barrier that stood between them and the freedom of the west. But they smiled and nodded and laughed because the soldiers had guns.

Gilbert sometimes wondered what would happen if any nation came here and saw him. They probably wouldn't recognize their dead enemy from so many years ago. But then again, nations had good memories.

So now, he would wait. Nothing could last forever, even something like this. If you learned anything from history, it's that nothing is absolute.

**XxXx**

Spain and France were together again. They had never quite been the same after Prussia died. There were more silences. Sometimes they invited Germany to come drinking with them, but he always declined. Spain had finally gotten his feelings together with Romano, something France and Prussia had bet on years ago. Prussia had lost that one, but there was no one there to brag to. France used the money to buy more flowers for Prussia's memorial.

But they had to be cheerful; there was no point wallowing after all these years. Prussia would most definitely disapprove of that.

Life went on, no matter how slowly.

America went drinking with them some times, but he was constantly on edge now. Everyone was, really, but no one except those two idiots really thought they would press the big red end-of-the-world button, as it were.

England was beginning to complain about how if he sneezed in bed, America would be up and dressed and calling his armed forces in less than a minute.

"How are you, Francis?" Antonio asked, rolling a ring he had picked up off the street between his fingers. "Turning into quite the fashionista, I heard."

Francis laughed. "That will always be Poland's job, I'm afraid."

"I don't think Lovino would enjoy being dressed in pink dresses all the time."

"I think you would enjoy it very much~"

Antonio flushed and looked down. "I-I um..."

"You've already got him in a dress?" Francis asked incredulously. "_Already?_ How long have you been going out? A week?"

"A month," Antonio said proudly. "A month this Sunday."

Francis rested his head on his hand, studying Antonio. "Country of Passion indeed, fair Toni."

"Ahh..." the Spanish country looked around. "You just got to know your lover."

There was an awkward silence, something that had been a regular occurrence in the Trio minus one.

"I-I better leave," Antonio said, standing up. "I'll see you later, okay?"

"Yeah." Francis got up too. "Goodbye."

It seemed oddly formal for the two friends, but neither did anything to relieve the tension. Finally, Francis sighed. "Gilbert was the party, wasn't he?"

Antonio nodded, slipping the ring into his pocket. "I miss him so much sometimes, Francis. So much that I don't even know what to do anymore. Lovi may be the only thing that's keeping me together."

Francis gripped his friend's shoulder. There was nothing he could say. Antonio knew that. Gilbert wasn't coming back.

He settled for a simple "Me too."

**XxXx **

Gilbert watched it fall. So did Russia, though he was no where near it at the time.

It was beautiful, the graffiti-ed stone toppling to the ground and East Germans and West Germans alike climbing over the rubble and finding family members that they hadn't seen in ages, because they were trapped on the other side. Feet trampled the no-man's land that so many men had bled out their lives on.

Gilbert waited until the rush was over. He was too old for this, he guessed. Then he laughed out loud, the first time he had done so this century.

An old woman came up to him and rapped on his cane with her cane. "Get out there, young man. You ain't old yet," she wheezed. Gilbert watched her hobble off into West Germany with a smile on her face. She was greeted by a whole warren of what were presumably her grandchildren and two adults who hugged her and called her 'Mother.'

His heart, for the first time since 1947, felt light. He smiled too, and started walking towards the west. He too had family to find.

On the other side of the wall, Germany watched the people with disbelief. It was finally over. In his eyes, this was the end of the war. All he had worked for these years...it all had payed off. If only there was some one to share it with.

He finally allowed himself to relax.

Ludwig strode over the wall, watching his people reunite. He was perhaps the only one there not hugging or kissing or crying for their family.

"'ello, Luddy. Miss me?"

But he soon would be.

Ludwig turned around disbelievingly. For a second, he had almost thought -

And there he was. Prussia, grinning at him like nothing had ever happened, and spreading his arms out for a hug.

They embraced, tears in both their eyes.

"I missed you more than you would ever believe," Germany whispered. Prussia laughed.

They stood like that for what seemed like ages. Or perhaps they only wished to to be so. Germany only broke it off because he noticed the cane.

"What happened?" he demanded. "You didn't try and cross the Wall, did you?" He had seen what had happened. Seen it as he tossed bandages to a dying man in the middle of no-man's land, unable to help.

"Of course not!" Prussia furrowed his eyebrows. "What the hell do you think I am, an idiot? Nah, I got this in the Great War." He grinned. "Boy, was that a long time ago."

"World War Two?" Germany looked at his brother's legs. "Why hasn't it healed?"

"I think it's because I've been here, Luddy. This isn't the best place to be a personfication." Prussia looked away. "I'm really not Prussia anymore. I'm just East, and you're West."

It made sense. Weren't the Italies divided too?

"Come on," Ludwig said, letting Gilbert lean on him as they walked through the rejoicing streets and to his house. "Tell me what happened."

**XxXx **

Russia looked sadly at his house. It used to be a mansion, but now it was nothing more than a crumbled down shack. Empty, alone. Even Belarus had left him in the end. He buried his face into his scarf, trying to get the feeling of family back, even if it was just smell.

He heard someone walking up behind him, not saying anything, just looking at his ruined house. Russia knew who it was, so he didn't say anything.

America broke the silence first. He never could stand silence. "It's your own fault, you know."

Russia shook his head frantically. "_Nyet. Eto bylo vse, chto vy! Chert amerikanskoĭ kapitalisticheskoĭ svin'i" _No, it's was all you. Damn American capitalist-pigs!

"Dude, I don't speak Russian."

He was too upset to answer, let alone try to speak English. Ivan just shook his head.

America put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "It's alright dude. Every Empire has gotta fall."

Russia found enough strength to form slightly-coherent words. "_i kogda_...and when did you become so wise?"

"Not sleeping gives you a lot of extra time to think things over."

Russia laughed at that one. "I understand."

They stood in a comfortable silence for a minute.

"Now tell me," America asked. "How long have you had Gilbert here?"

"Gilbert, not Prussia?"

"I don't think he's Prussia anymore. Prussia doesn't exist. And I think you know that."

"Of course I do. I always have." Ivan turned to look at Alfred. He was standing ridiculously casually for someone so close to their enemy. But there were dark bags under his eyes, and a the sort of edginess that a rabbit has – able to be running at any second. "And you were never going to blow up the world."

"I came close a few times."

"So did I."

"You still haven't answered my question."

"Oh, I've had him from the very day you decided to kill him."

Alfred didn't deny it. He knew Ivan knew the truth; there was just no point. "I hope you didn't do anything to him."

"Not on purpose. I think he did it to himself."

"Did what?"

"Crippled himself."

"That explains the crutch then."

Ivan raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't under the impression that you had seen him lately."

"Ah, just came over from the Wall. You've got a messed up system there, buddy. Walls aren't meant to keep people in."

"How are you so sure?" Ivan muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Alfred didn't give any sign that he had heard him. He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. "I think it's time for a new Russia. Get rid off all that ridiculous baggage you got weighing you down."

"So nice for someone who's been trying to kill me."

Alfred grinned cockily. "I'm a pretty nice guy." He looked at the ruined house again. "I'd start rebuilding right away if I were you. Wouldn't want anything to come and take over the job for you. Or for any of the elements to get to it."

"Is that a threat?"

"Nah, just advice from someone who's built houses before." Alfred winked,turned around and walked off into the horizon. Ivan wondered how he had gotten into Russia in the first place, but decided it didn't matter.

It was time for a new Russia.

**XxXx**

There was just one more thing to be taken care of.

The site of Gilbert's memorial had become a sort of Switzerland without the yelling and the guns. When meetings got out of hand, or when wars were about to be started, the nations went there to think.

There was another memorial service of sorts on now, to celebrate or mourn the end of the Soviet Union and the fall of the Berlin Wall, depending on whose side you were on. America and Russia were standing side by side, tension still there; but now they could stay in the same room together, at least.

Ludwig had objected when Gilbert had first suggested it, but he couldn't do anything about it. So Gilbert had snuck in quietly, sitting in the back where no one could see him, and watched his own memorial service.

Judging from the way Antonio and Romano stood together, he had lost that bet with Francis.

Was Hungary crying?

Gilbert relaxed in his chair. This was actually rather satisfying. He folded his arms against his chest and crossed his legs. It was almost a sadistic pleasure; seeing nations crying over your death (that had been so long ago – why were they still upset?). It was so hard not to laugh.

America and Russia were filling that role for him though. The rest of the countries were shooting them dirty looks as they looked at each other and grinned.

Well, it must be funny for Russia, knowing Gilbert was alive. Just as funny (if not more so) as Gilbert found it. America probably knew too.

Ludwig was as stoic as always.

Maybe Gilbert should have brought a disguise: a longcoat and sunglasses or something equally awesome. He could have walked right in front of them then. But he doubted he could have stopped from laughing.

Well, screw it. Gilbert stood up, the scraping of his chair causing several nations to look at him. "Hey you guys! I gotta little announcement to make!"

As long as he was going to cause a commotion, he would do it awesomely.

He cupped his hands around his mouth. "I just wanna let you all know: awesome is immortal." He put a hand on his hip. "I'm a bit disappointed; thinking I could just poof out like that. Kesesesesese~"

Germany was facepalming. America had fallen over laughing.

Gilbert grinned at the astonished nations and skipped off, still chucking to himself. "Okay, that's it: Gilbert, you are awesome. I am better than Waldo at hiding. They are never gonna believe this."

Francis was the first to move, walking over to Antonio and putting a hand on his shoulder, more for his own support than Antonio's comfort.  
"God..."Antonio whispered. "Oh my God. He's okay.

**XxXx**

**There. There's my written-with-no-sleep-for-twenty-four-hours masterpiece. It didn't really take the course I planned, but there you go. It also has very little dialogue, so this is good practice for me.**

**Yeah, I apologize for this fic. **

**Remember, critiques are welcomed and reviews are fawned over! **


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